said. “But I must not stop here and be spooney. Such a halcyon day I may not have again in all my life, and I ought to make the best of it, with my New Skates.”
So he dashed off, and filled the little cove above the Point with a labyrinth of curves and flourishes.
When that bit of crystal tablet was well covered, the podographer sighed for a new sheet to inscribe his intricate rubricas upon. Why not write more stanzas of the poetry of motion on the ice below the Point? Why not?
Braced by his lunch on the brown fibre of good Mrs. Purtett’s cold drumstick and thigh. Wade was now in fine trim. The air was more glittering and electric than ever. It was triumph and victory and pæan in action to go flashing along over this footing, smoother than polished marble and sheenier than first-water gems.
Wade felt the high exhilaration of pure blood galloping through a body alive from top to toe. The rhythm of his movement was like music to him.
The Point ended in a sharp promontory. Just before he came abreast of it, Wade under mighty headway flung into his favorite corkscrew spiral on one foot, and went whirling dizzily along, round and round, in a straight line.
At the dizziest moment, he was suddenly aware of a figure, also turning the Point at full speed, and rushing to a collision.
He jerked aside to avoid it. He could not look
